The Art and The Artist
by PlasmaStar42
Summary: An original short story... I happened to have to publish a thing in a place for school, and this was the closest I could get; I have to wait 12 hours for to allow me to post anything because I've only ever used before. Thanks, internet!


Nathan Ritchie

9/25/14

**The Art and the Artist**

The boy sat alone in a dimly lit school hallway, peacefully listening to the echoes of early-arriving teachers opening and closing doors, chairs being moved across the sleek tile floor. He enjoyed mornings like this, where he could sit alone in these halls and think clearly. The far-off noises seemed to do nothing but cheer him on; but to the average person they would do nothing but remind them of eerie horror movie sound effects, the moment before someone was killed. After a couple more moments of reflection, however, he pulled out his drawing notebook and went to work.

Nobody in the school ever saw him without his notebook—and of course a couple of pencils—sketching away the marvelous thoughts that flowed through his mind. As a passerby looked over his shoulder, they might not immediately see the creative aspect of his work, but they could tell he was good at what he was doing. Not the best in the school, by a long shot; but indeed one of the most curious of artists. All artists, of course, develop quirks and outlandish habits that the common high school student would not quite understand… but even the art students didn't get this boy. He had never taken but one art class, and whenever he was seen with is notebook he would only use a specific type of mechanical pencil… no good sketch artist used a common pencil! Yet for him, it made more sense that way. Why spend a couple hundred dollars on the best of the best drawing materials if the simple stuff works just the same?

This particular morning, however, the young artist felt a particular spark of interest, and let his imagination free as the tip of his pencil swiped across the page in so many directions. The graphite lines scraped lightly across the paper, eventually forming shapes one might have recognized. His face showed so much emotion... some frustration or extreme focus, sometimes biting his lip in anxiety and disappointment, erasing a section of his work and starting over. Other times, he looked down at his work, stopping for just a moment to admire it, and a slight turn of a smile could be seen in the corner of his mouth. But that enjoyment never lasted long, because his piece was still not complete. Even when one gazed onto the page and saw what magnificent work he had done, there were still such tiny flaws only apparent to the eye of the one who made it—and he could stand for nothing but near perfection.

After so many twists and turns were added to the image, and the boy was finally satisfied, he would close his notebook and walk away. He would never boast of his work, he would never over-admire it for himself, in order to gain even more self-gratitude. He wouldn't even mention to others given every chance to show off his artistic abilities. This was not his purpose as an artist. If one was to do something they loved only for the admiring and compliments of others, it would lose some important value that it gave to them, and they would search to do nothing but please with this talent.

How could someone take such an amazing ability and hide it from the view of others? Did he just not want any added attention from his piers? Did he not want any other artist to give up out of intimidation from his own beautiful artwork? Or maybe, just maybe, he still didn't believe he was good enough. So many short conversations were held by groups of teachers and other students, wondering why his work was never shared; why he sat in those halls, on early mornings, alone.

The boy knew of all these curiosities that people held about him, he knew they secretly yearned for answers to his mysterious ways. But in all honesty, he was just an artist. He just sat in those halls because being alone helped him focus. He never shared his work because of all the excuses people listed—he strived to stay a humble artist. But he also strived to never let down the interest of the students and teachers around him. This cloud of mystery gave him a reason to keep drawing, to keep the dream going. Sure, he might never be the greatest artist on the face of the planet. And fine—he might never show off any of the art he made. But it was the story that mattered—anywhere from the near future to a couple years from now, someone might remember him. Not for his art, but the mystery of what the unseen art was. Not for his artistic skill, but his unique personality that surrounded the art, which in and of itself was its own masterpiece. Because in the end, it was the piece that was remembered by all who saw it—not the silver plaque to its side, with a name etched into it. But it's the story of the art and the artist that would still be conveyed; even if nobody ever did see the lines he drew.


End file.
